


Surviving a Wasteland full of Telamon's Stupid Knights

by Lucky_Number_Seventeen



Series: Roadtrips, writing prompts, and drawing requests! [5]
Category: RPF [Roleplay Forum], Roblox
Genre: Crack, More tags to follow, Wasteland!AU, guard!benzo, gunner!jeopardizedjake, knights vs cowboys, mechanic[maniac]!lng, medic!purring, plot? what plot, squad leader!slacktivist, swordsman!danonymous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6390979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky_Number_Seventeen/pseuds/Lucky_Number_Seventeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The RPF rebellion is on the brink of falling. Literally the only thing standing between Robloxia and freedom is a tiny squad of Rebellionites. Half of which don't even have viable ammo. Slacktivist, a leader of a lesser squad, has the determination needed to fuel his dislike for the destructive knights terrorizing his lands. But he certainly can't accomplish anything by himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The realm of Robloxia had plunged into a civil war. All across the expansive country, sectors began to lift a hand against the extreme leader, Telamon, in an attempt to free themselves from his cruel ruling. First Hlaseno, the factory and education sector, followed closely behind by Klubovna, the realm's army.Then there was Stvoreni, who oversaw the production of all food, and Zabava, who fixed technology and created inventions. But what first started off as minor skirmishes soon tumbled headfirst into an all-out war as the Sectors banded together in an attempt to overthrow Telamon.

Alas, it was not to be, for one by one, the sectors were crushed into oblivion. Only Zabava prevailed, but their time was running out. Cut off from Stvoreni, who had supplied them with resources, and Hlaseno, who had the physical power, Zabava was slowly being forced into a corner. Its sub-sectors were already on the fence, drained of their resources and will to fight. VGC had been bombed beyond repair, and Telamon's Knights had recently raided R-S - a majority of Zabava's fighting force - with Automatons. VCwR was the weakest of the bunch, a city whose only use was its technological advances. Meanwhile PC was the civilian city, full of innocent lives with no formal training. RPF alone (Okay, so they had some stragglers, escapees from the other subsectors) stood between freedom and slavery. And while the sub-sector generated the most posts each term, they lacked the strength to keep the fight going for months at a time.

-

Slack dove to the ground, a slew of curses flying from his mouth as he tumbled into the rocky ground. Biting back an expletive as a sharp stone impaled the soft flesh of his right hand, he lifted his arms to shield his head against the oncoming barrage of lasers. Each moment the Cowboy dawdled was a moment lost against the Knights - the King's personal army - who were drawing ever closer.

Shielded behind a rather flimsy structure, the Scout was determined to wait out the attack. There wasn't much a singular soldier could do - what use was a revolver against tanks? He was regretting his decision to split the squadron up, sending their only medic, Purring, back to Annekitieren to assist with the latest damages. Knight attacks were popping up every few hours, and the demand for a doctor was high. Not only that, but he had sent their best fighters - JeopardizedJake, Benzo, and Danonymous - to accompany her. Losing their medic in this game of cat and mouse would most certainly doom Slack's little squadron. No one paid much attention to those on the outlying war front. If Purring was lost, there wouldn't be a replacement.

The volley stopped after what seemed to be hours; only then did Slacktivist pick himself up from the stony floor and peek around the large, crescent-shaped structure he had been using as protection. Fiddling with the controls on his helmet, he slid the visor down over his hazel eyes. An instant later, a variety of options shimmered into existence, courtesy of the high-tech optic viewer. Bypassing the bodily scan (Obviously, he was bleeding profusely from the puncture wound within his left hand) and the map features, the male opened up the telescope feature. Nearly stumbling as the world was lit up in clear, crisp detail, Slack scanned the horizon for an approaching vehicles. Nothing. "Where are they?" He murmured quietly. The landscape was silent, though the Knights were supposed to be approaching, and they should have been visible to him by now... Where were they? And with his communicator uttering less than helpful tips, he had no way of contacting those stationed at Annektieren.

Even now, Slack could hear the machine buzzing, offering up a garbled "-point.. sp.. Scouts.... ge." over and over again. Which wasn't much of a help.

With a sigh, Slack shut the system down. He would have LNG look over the comm later - as the resident mechanic of the group, he should be able to figure out if there was a problem. More likely than not, his squad was just out of range. The primitive technology that the Cowboys utilized was a mere echo of the Knight's more sophisticated machinery. Their weapons broke frequently, their machines were faulty. Errors were common, and it was a surprise that the Cowboys lasted against Telamon's army of Knights for as long as they had. 

But the RPF Cowboys had prevailed against all odds. Losses were common, and death could happen at a moment's notice, but those in the rebellion had heart. No longer would they suffer the rule of Telamon's iron fist! Robloxia would be free again! Or at least, that was the propaganda spouted in PC, the civilian city. Nothing could be further from the truth, as the Cowboy's, freedom's only hope, were dying en masse. 

Shifting his revolver into his uninjured hand, the Cowboy searched his pocket for extra cartridges. He never packed heavy - couldn't afford to if he wanted to remain light-footed - but the fact that he only had two steam capsules to power his laser was somewhat shameful. The captain didn't remember using up the other eight. Working as quickly as he could, as dawn was quickly approaching, Slack slid the small cylindric object out of his revolver, before replacing it with a fresh, fully-charged steamer, tinted neon green. Tucking the mint capsule back into his pack, Slack got ready to go. 

"Running across a war zone? No big deal." He rasped rather dryly. "Not like my leather helmet with stop a fully charged laser anyways."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a discontinued fanfiction. This has been stewing in my workspace for a couple weeks now, so I decided to go ahead and post what I have. Might not make sense. Good luck!

Many, many years ago, some nitwit inherited a kingdom and decided that in order to protect his territory, he would need to take it to the air. In a way, this man, Roblox, the first king of Robloxia. [The name is a lineage thing - his dad was Roblox before him, and henceforth.] He was also the leading man in steam technology, granting him an advantage over the other, more primitive societies that were being shaped.

While creative, he was paranoid to no end. And so, riding on the feeling that his death was nigh, Roblox set into course an action that would forever change the world; a self-reliant, floating island of a country. It worked - kinda. Steam technology was rather limited back then, and although Roblox had the idea for it, there were some things his resources couldn't provide. Regardless, he was undeterred, and so his kingdom's greatest mechanics were called upon and set to work.

Endless days and nights these mechanics poured over his plans, and piece by piece, this reality was realized. It took years for the platform that the kingdom would fly on to be actualized, but in the end it was accomplished with new innovations in technology. Throughout the building period, many civilians were unaware of its construction, for whenever a group of builders would show up, the men would simply be whisked away underground, to continue construction beneath the prying eyes of those who lived above.

-

He wheezed, resisting the nagging urge to hack up the tickle within his throat. Removing his mask for extended periods of time and breathing in the damp, acidic air ensured a sure path to sickness. Slack couldn't really handle inhaling the recycled atmosphere his mask provided for him, stale and suffocating. He didn't know what was worse - the stifling feeling of slow asphyxiation, or burning up from the inside out as your lungs rotted within you. (Okay, so choice 2 was probably the bigger, badder wolf, but still.) Slowly creeping across the bleak landscape, the male couldn't wait to return to base, and breathe in the sweet, sweet freedom the steam-powered pumps provided. 

But alas, he still had a couple of hour's walk to go, and that was without distractions. When he had crept out of camp, two early mornings ago, his mission had been a simple one of recon. Unfortuantly, when the marching Knights got in between him and his safe haven, and so Slack had been forced to take the long way around. With limited supplies, the Squad Leader could only pray he would return before they all burned up.

Lifting his eyes to the red sky, Slack felt a scowl find it's way to his lips. Crimson, rose, and boysenberry were the only colours he had ever known the sky to be, stained that way from the toxic engines that kept the plateu in the air. In the ancient texts of 'history', there was a supposed section in which the heavens were a rich blue, and the lands were coated with lush fields of grass. But that was all a myth to Slack, given the fact the only thing he had ever laid eyes upon was red sky, and gray, brittle ground. Even in the farming sector, Stvoreni, the crops were brown and rough. 

Torn from his thoughts as the ground beneath his feet rumbled, Slack's hazel ocular organs widened in alarm. Turning around for cover, the Cowboy sought shelter beneath a small, rocky outcropping, burrowing down beneath a small sheath of aged stone. Scarcely had he hidden his figure when a small tank appeared on the horizon, an older model - if the sputtered jets of smoky gas that erupted from his backside were any indication.

As the small procession approached, Slacktivist became aware of the small carriage attached to the back of the vehicle, crudely carven from wood. The wooden bars clattered against one another with each rock the tank ran over, creating an awful song that lacked rhythm. (It was also rather loud.) The tank plowed right past him, unaware of the dirt-stained man hiding between the rocks. As it did so, Slack became aware of eyes watching him.

Lifting his hazel gaze, he was met by the sight of a dirt-stained brunet, watching him with hollow eyes and chapped lips. No mask. Stretching a hand through the bars, the person weakly reached for Slack. Despite the odds - the camouflage and the rocks - they had seen him without any trouble whatsoever.

He debated on launching a rescue, the guilt of being spotted hiding by the prisoner burrowing through his brain like maggots through flesh. He looked away, his eyes darting shamefully to the ground. But his mind was alight with possibilities - running various scenarios through his imagination. Obviously, this tank wasn't performing fully. It's scanners had to be broken to an extent, as the prisoner had noticed him whereas the machine itself had not. A full on frontal attack would be next to impossible, for his weak green lasers wouldn't make a dent in the vehicle.

Great. So he had to do this sneakily. Slowly rising from the ground, Slacktivist inched slowly to the edge of the outcropping. The prisoner was soullessly staring in his direction, brown eyes dull and exhausted. Raising his uninjured hand, Slack steadied his aim, honing in on the bracket attacking the primitive cage to the machine itself. Index finger hesitantly hovered over the trigger, as if debating on backing out on the decision that was about to be made. At last, Slack gave into his better instinct. He fired.

The brilliant bolt of lights shot out of his rusted revolver, traveling quickly with the assistance of the airwaves. Striking the bolt holding the cell in place, the overwhelming heat that the last emitted burned right through the soft metal that had been used to fashion the makeshift clamp. The carriage toppled to the ground with a start, falling on it's side. And the tank continued to roll forward, slowly.. slowly.. it stopped.

Cursing his luck, the masked Cowboy darted out from his enclosure, aiming a wild shot for the tank's perception filters. It bounced off it's solid exterior, but hopefully the attack would momentarily jar whoever was at the controls. Covering the space between the rock and the wooden cage quickly, he used up another bolt to burn the lock off of the door. Reaching inside, he grabbed roughly for the prisoner, before pulling them to their feet by the threads of their ragged clothes. "Run!" He shouted, his words garbled by the mask he donned.

The brunet he had saved momentarily hesitated, before scrambling out of the hole in their cell. Running after them, Slacktivist fired off his revolver once more, as the tank was slowly turning around to face the perpetrator. But not fast enough, for the escapee had already managed to shelter themselves behind the rock he had used as cover. Not a word was exchanged between the two as Slacktvist stepped besides the prisoner. "Shit shit shit, I can't take out a tank." He growled out through gritted teeth, glancing sideways at the heaving, emancipated prisoner besides him. "You don't happen to have an idea, eh?"

"I-I-" the stranger rasped out through chapped lips, still struggling to get their bearings. Seemingly steadying their beating heart, the brunet met Slack's gaze with solemn brown eyes. Opening their mouth to speak, they were cut off by a sudden bout of coughing. Bloid bubbled up over their lips and they hacked it onto the crowd.

But Slack wasn't paying attention - his eyes were all on the tank, which had completed it's turn and was slowly, painstakingly making it's way towards the wreckage of the prisoner cell. He turned back to the person he had saved, and his hazel eyes softened. Shrugging off his pack, he rummaged within it's contents before pull out a cheap, ragged gasmask. Pawning it to the figure without a word, he refrained from firing on the tank. With it's bulky exterior, he could only hope the driver hadn't seen where he had run off too.

Of course, it wasn't like there was much coverage out here. A heckton of rocks - sure, but the outcrop that he had chosen to hide behind wasn't exactly small. It was logical for two runners to make their way towards it. In the distance he could see the entrance of the Stone Maze, an infamous territory whose name was gleaned from it's twisting sheathes of rock. Going in their was a guaranteed mistake. But if the choice was between getting lost and getting captured.. well, Slack certainly knew which decision he would make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a brief blurb for chapter 3 that will be posted, but otherwise I don't expect this to be updated again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end! I lost the muse to continue this, but who knows?  
> Maybe I'll pick it up again.
> 
> Probably not though.

By the time the flying kingdom was ready to be launched, Roblox was on his deathbed. But he had passed his ideals from father to son, and his child, Shedletsky, was more than willing to follow through with the dream of his father. The first king passed eventually, but his kin was more than ready. Taking of the reigns of his father's project, Shedletsky gave the okay.

Or at least, this was how the story was passed down, generation through generation. While there's a few scholars aware of the true history, they are rather rare nowadays.


End file.
